


Divertissement

by KamalasFanfiction



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Black Widow (Comics), DCU (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: DC/Marvel Complex Crossover (implied), Dick Grayson is Robin, Espionage, F/M, First Meetings, Implied Sexual Content, One Night Stands, Parental Reader, Partying, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamalasFanfiction/pseuds/KamalasFanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Divertissement <br/>noun.<br/>From the French: entertainment or enjoyment. A short dance inserted between the acts of a classic or story ballet designed to show off the technical ability of the featured dancer(s).</p><p>(There are other names for love. You're just now learning them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divertissement

**Author's Note:**

> Bruce and Dick are both at the beginning of their Batman/Robin careers. The reader uses female pronouns and has a feminine build. Takes place post Adagio, but can be read without reading it first.

You like being  _ pretty _ .

It’s a strange thing to admit, after you’ve laid out all of your makeup and brushes in a line, precise like surgical tools or artist brushes. Being pretty is an art- looking attractive enough to catch the eye but not hold it, for passersby to find some neat quality on your face (perhaps the shape of your eyes or the curvature of your brows) but nothing else. Makeup was a mask, a deception. This is how you keep a distance, how you keep suitors at arm’s length, learn just enough that you can leave satisfied knowing you picked up enough fractions of a fact to construct Gotham in your mind. 

Gotham isn’t your city, but you want it to be. 

You’ll admit- you attempted Metropolis. Hot summers and warm winters and men and women with too many smiles and too many friendly touches. It was easy to blend in because no one wanted to look past the surface- there was no work to be done. Superman, red cape and blue costume and all, made sure his city was crime-free to the T, and just the threat of the big blue boyscout coming down on them made criminals run in different directions. 

The thought brought up a sense of nostalgia in you, but you very quickly press it down, swallowing bile as you test swatches of lipstick against the side of your thumb. Red was gorgeous, a personal favorite, but far too noticeable. You scrape it off with your opposing thumbnail and decide on the slightly lighter shade of pink, then practice your smile in the mirror a few times. 

Smile, you are not a predator. 

Smile, you’re here to mingle.

Smile, you’re comfortable here.

Smile, you’re normal.

Smile, less teeth, more pink lips and batted eyelashes. You need to relax the muscles in your cheeks, or else you’ll end up grimacing at all of the bachelors at the Wayne Gala. Gotham had a different bite to it than Metropolis did- a strange wealth in what was otherwise an utter hole in the ground. Playboy-abundant and full of strange crime rings, Gotham rang familiar whenever you looked out over the gloom of the city. Not quite the same as Russia, but if you closed your eyes and pretended the English swearing was Russian, you could blur the memories and hear cartilage breaking and teeth hitting the pavement. 

Home sweet home. 

Just the same as always, you were someone you were not. Bulgarian lipstick model from a little-known brand, no one important. Popular in Eastern Europe, with just enough wealth to stick your foot into the door at an annual party by the most well-known benefactor in Gotham City. Invitation-only, but you’d heard about Wayne’s soft-spot for models and managed to snatch an invitation through rather backdoor means. 

By that, you mean that you stole one out of someone else’s mail and recreated it with your current alias. Certainly not your most high-tech solution, but it got the job done. You just hoped it would all be worth purchasing the fifty-dollar engraving and ten-dollar sheet of paper. Merc jobs usually covered the bills nicely, but you were trying to fly under the radar for right now. With the bat vigilante traipsing around the city, you couldn’t really do anything without notice. 

You’d seen the surveillance cameras everywhere- and those were just the ones the Bat put out himself. His surveillance was impressive, but there were blind spots nearly everywhere, and you wondered if he was aware and couldn’t fix them, or was blind to them himself. So, you stuck to recon. This is you. Gathering intel like a good little spy. 

(You swore you’d stop calling yourself a spy when you stopped having a division to associate yourself with, but old habits kept bringing the word back to your tongue. You were in this for yourself, now- there was no one around to even provide this intel to any way. Self preservation and what not.)

Limousine arrives at six, just before the sun sets and the city overturns itself into its violent underbelly. It’d be suspicious if you’d rented it out alone, so you’d-

“Oh. Em. Gee. Beth-Anne, it’s been so long!” Your voice is pitched, Vermont-accented. Beth-Anne looks up at you through hazy blue eyes, tongue darting out to catch a bead of Vodka that was in danger of messing up her lipstick. You step into the limousine carefully, one heel before the other, making sure your balance is flat enough to pivot yourself without flashing anyone behind you. Five-star hotel behind you (you’d  _ just _ paid for the night- Crime Alley was going to become very familiar with you very soon), you grin at her over a glass of offered wine. “It’s  _ so  _ crazy that we ended up in the same line of work- imagine the odds!”

“I  _ kn-ow _ !” There’s a lilt to her voice, and you can tell that day-drinking has not been kind to her. That’s why you chose her to leech off of- poor dear holds her liquor so poorly that she probably can’t tell you aren’t her old high school buddy Maria Valesquez. “Ugh, if I knew we were both in town, I would’ve set something up a whole lot sooner!” She slings one arm around your shoulder, and you can smell her sweat. 

Beth-Anne Taylor, other than being cursed with three first names and a seemingly limitless pit of anxiety which she filled with liquor, was an incredibly kind girl. Young, in her twenties, a runway model. You also suspected that she wasn’t as good of a friend to the other girls in the limo as she put on, if their disinterested looks and her rapt attention in you was anything to go by. You would feel bad about intending to abandon her through the party if you weren’t so sure that she’d spend the entire party in the bathroom, sick from few too many flutes of champagne. 

She spills her shot of vodka onto the leather seat when the driver stops and lets out a nervous giggle that makes you want to... Well, console her would be good, if it wouldn’t make it seem like she couldn’t afford the damages. With the strip of models slowly exiting the car, you waited before pulling out a bunch of tissues and swiping it up quickly, Beth-Anne already dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her pinky nail. 

“You’re  _ sooo _ good to me.” She says, bottom lip wobbling. An emotional drunk. “I’ll- _ shit _ -” She wobbles out of the car, and you have to support her elbow. Luckily, the cameras are flashing a little further down than your current parking spot, so you get her on her feet and then start to move forward. She grabs you by the shoulder and pulls you back and, squinting, you’d almost think that she knew you weren’t actually Maria if you thought for a second she could see straight. “I’ll keep in touch, y’know? Still... Still got your number in my phone.” She holds up her clutch, smiling, even as you walk away after telling her to find you if she needed anything.  

Cameras flash when you walk onto the carpet rolled specifically to welcome guests into the Wayne manor. You stick close to the back of a hand model, whose gestures seem to delightfully block out any chance the photographers have at getting an unmarred photo of your face. You walk in and find that...

Well,  _ shit _ .

You look like you’re attending a funeral. While the burst of color from your makeup certainly helps (and you’re glad that you opted for the pink instead of the red, which would’ve been worse), the fact that you may be the only person in the room wearing a completely black dress makes you stand out like a sore thumb. For all of its gloom and doom, the wealthy elite apparently have a taste for the colorful, more recent fashions. 

You had this dress custom made in goddamn Bulgaria for verisimilitude. Black, floor-length gown, sweetheart neckline, with lace sewed around your waist like a belt. You’re supposed to be  _ pretty _ and  _ blend in _ , but you might’ve overdone it a bit. Damn you for not asking around for fashion advice. Beth-Anne probably didn’t even know you were wearing a dress, nonetheless that it was out of fashion.

So, you settle. 

You make your way to the far right of the party, by a neat table of refreshments, and pick up a flute of champagne and a little cucumber sandwich, waiting to see if anyone would spring your trap. You’re disappointed to find out that cucumber sandwiches aren’t as good as they were advertised, are literally just a slice of cucumber, and that the champagne is fairly warm for being chilled in an air-conditioned room. You make quick work of the cucumber sandwich (essentially two bites’ worth), then open your clutch, peering in to find your hand mirror.

While fixing up your hair, a gutsy blond decides to reach over your shoulder to pick up a flute. “Charming,” You say, a fixed, challenging smile on your face. “You pull that with all the ladies?” Flirtatious. You could pull of flirtatious.

“Only the cute ones, usually.” A very obvious once-over. You purse your lips, obviously waiting on his analysis. “Not often with the  _ hot _ ones. What brings your pretty little self to a place like  _ Gotham _ ?” 

You don’t like how he spits out the name. 

“Business, not pleasure.” Technically true. You flick your thumb on your glass, letting the sound ring into the empty space between the two of you. “A couple of business exploits here, I heard. What about you?”

“A booming pharmaceutical exploit, actually.” He laughs with far too much gusto, and you have to narrow your eyes. Drug dealer, way too obvious about it. If it weren’t for his pressed suit, you’d probably never guess that he’d belong in this room. “My higher-ups sent me out here to see if I could get the business booming and, well, look where I am!” Too many teeth in one smile, he looks like a predator. He doesn’t have the same kind of practice you have. 

“Well, Mister Booming Business, would you spare this lady a dance?” You know your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, and you don’t want it to. You want as far away from this greasy drug tycoon as possible, but you’ve wrapped yourself up too tightly now. You’ll play your cards right and switch partners when the moment arrives. 

The ‘moment’ arrives two songs in, when the live orchestra’s violins slow down to a soft whirr, and someone else’s hand wraps around your waist, pulls you from a (migraine inducing) discussion about specifics that went into a ‘special brand of drug’ that the still unnamed bastard (no manners) continued to rattle on about, when he thought you were too dumb to understand. It’s the chemical composition for methamphetamine, and his formula was cut with fucking baking soda (sodium bicarbonate) and you were definitely thinking about committing murder in the middle of the party when he slyly let it slip that it was popular with the youth. 

The hand on your waist, thank God, pulls you to safety, and into the chest of an incredibly well-built man. Before you can even look up, your hands are planted on his chest for the impact, and you can feel the buildup of muscle, the slight flex when you look up to identify your savior. You blink, once, twice, then feel your smile grow wider, out of reflex. You’re about to goddamn sweat bullets. 

You recognize that chin. That’s Batman’s chin. You’d seen him whenever you went, hoodie-up and face turned down, into the darker side of Gotham at night, to see how this vigilante functioned. 

That’s also, recognized straight from the paper and the invitation, Bruce Wayne. 

He’s smiling back at you. “I really hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He weaves his fingers through your’s, tilts his head down to look at you. Oh,  _ he’s good _ . He’s playing this game just like you are, but with a lot less finesse. He obviously doesn’t want to be here, just about as much as you do, and his smile is a lot more strained. “You were looking like you needed an out.”

“I  _ promise _ , you’re not interrupting anything.” You were a little petty about it, but you threw a tired look over your shoulder at the pharmaceutical expert, who seems to have picked up a new dance partner and not noticed that she’s not you. “Being saved by Bruce Wayne? You’ll have to hold me a little tighter- I might faint.”

Bruce chuckles, and it’s a strange thing, because the smile finally reaches his eyes, crinkling at the edges as he tilts his head. You feel his hand flex on your waist, each finger tapping lightly against your dress. He thinks it’s ironic, your choice of words, and it’s funny to him. You have to smile back, because he has that kind of face- an infectious smile and pretty blue eyes. “I don’t think I caught your name.” He catches a flute of champagne as a waiter passes by, offers it to you and, when you raise an eyebrow and shake your head, shrugs. He downs it in one gulp, and you have to laugh- it’s a play, obviously. You’d seen him faking sips out of the corner of your eye, watering the fake plants with it when no one obvious was looking. “I think I would’ve remembered seeing someone like  _ you _ on the guest list.”

“I was a bit of a ‘plus-one’.” You say, humbly, fluttering your eyelashes at him. He snorts, and you hope he’s not about to choke up that champagne. Two things occur to you, from the seemingly overreacting to your jokes to the way his hand rests on your waist, closer to your hip. Firstly, Bruce Wayne is  _ bored _ . Bored in a way that makes him want to ditch his own party, despite the sentimental value and the plethora of pretty models. Bored in a way that makes your jokes a lot funnier than they are, bored in a way that makes a trained vigilante pick up sparkling wine because it’ll take the edge off of the loud party guests. You give him your most recent alias, sharp tongue over the Bulgarian accents, keeping your teeth hidden when you smile. 

You’re not trying to kill the man. Just flirt a little. No need to break out the intimidation tactics.

“Lovely name.” And he remembers it off of the list. There’s a spark of recognition, that your pseudonym had been enough to catch his attention, and that’s when you should’ve bailed. It’d never been your intention to catch Bruce’s eye- it wasn’t about him, it was about the people that flocked to him. Guy attracted trouble like nobody’s business, even when he was out of costume. “I don’t suppose you don’t know mine.” 

He’s teasing you and it’s cute. If you didn’t know that your metabolism burned through champagne like it was nothing, you might’ve thought that the champagne was giving you rose-tinted glasses. But no. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, nice beard and pretty eyes, is definitely hitting on you. It’s a charming sort of flirting, not exactly high-society, but it was indicative of someone who had emulated behaviors that they’d seen in high-society and were trying to produce them from memory. “I would hope it’s Bruce Wayne, otherwise I’ll be a little confused.” That earns another charming little chuckle. 

That second thing you’d realized? Bruce Wayne totally wants to sleep with you. He couldn’t make it any more transparent if he whispered it into your ear. He wants to sleep with you because he thinks you’re  _ lovely _ , which is far more than  _ pretty _ , which is something you hadn’t really wanted. Oh, no. Not the sex. Certainly, a one-night stand with a Wayne would make for a funny little story to pass on to some other billionaire during a game of poker, but attracting his attention wasn’t on the menu. It must’ve been the black dress- he matches, ironically, in a traditional tuxedo, a handkerchief tucked into his pocket with lace lining. 

“And if I told you I wasn’t Bruce Wayne?” He says, joking, and it’s  _ earnest _ . You have to wonder when the last time was that he actually had fun. He spins you, your feet leaving the ground briefly, before anyone else could’ve noticed the flex of muscle when his arm wrapped fully around your waist to pick you up. That isn’t the muscle of a man who casually lifts weights. “What if I’m some mysterious stranger?”

“Then I’d say you’d forgotten your mask.” There’s a freeze in his smile, his dimple frozen too high from when he’d halted on a smirk. “This isn’t a masquerade, Mister Wayne- I can actually tell who you are.” And he relaxes, on a dime, and you’re almost worried that he’s going to drop you in relief. 

“Please, call me Bruce,” And he calls you by your first name, which sounds delicious coming from his mouth, the strange Gothamite accent perfect around the vowels. You’d like to kiss him, take those letters right off of his tongue, and everything about his body language says that he’d let you. This isn’t anything substantial, but it’s good. No matter how drunk he’d pretended to be earlier, all of that pretense had faded away so that all that was left was this warm, tired look in his eye. You’ve seen that look before, on less kind faces, on sharper cheekbones and pursed lips. It occurs to you that you may have a type. “Though, you can-”

“Really?” You have to laugh, a short, abortive sound. “‘Call me any time’. Of all the one-liners, that’s the one-”

“In my defense, I can never think of the good ones around beautiful women.” You suck in a breath of air through your teeth, and he raises an eyebrow, nearly impressed that  _ that _ was the one that got you. Really, you were marvelling over the fact that the situation had evolved from ‘lovely’ to ‘beautiful’, and that you were still hogging Bruce. You can feel a couple of cold glares down your back. It’s fine- none of them will remember you after tonight. He catches your attention again quickly, after your brief lull in conversation. “So, how are you enjoying the gala?”

You could laugh right in his face at the way he says ‘gala’, as if it’s the most pretentious word he’s ever heard. But you don’t, just catch your smile before it goes to bright-white teeth and darting tongue. You’re not going to eat him up. “About as much as you are,” You glance him up and down when you pull him back at arm’s length. “Which isn’t saying much, obviously.”

“You think so?” And you can tell, he’s taking notes. ‘This is what not to do when dancing with beautiful women at a party to maintain appearances’. He takes a moment to consider your statement. “Well, currently, at least I’m enjoying the company.” A pause. “And the champagne.” He tacks that on because he’s still trying to play a part. He doesn’t know he’s given up the character thirty minutes ago. 

“You want my honest opinion?” The violin drags slow, and he pulls you closer to his chest. You tilt your chin upward, your breath ghosting over his ear. “I wouldn’t mind a more... Exclusive party.” And he considers it. Looks at you sparingly, as if he doesn’t want you to see that he’s willing to just take you into a guest bedroom at two in the morning and put runs in your tights.

The thing is, is that he’s bored enough to consider it. And it’d help boost his image- playboy philanthropist throws gala, leaves with beautiful woman on his arm. You’re doing him a favor. “I think I can... accommodate to your preferences.” Bruce says it with a sly thrill that tells you that it’s been a goddamn long time since he’s had fun. “I am nothing if not a good host.”

“I can attest to that.” And he must’ve used some of that Batman skill, because no one looks at the both of you as you ghost out of the side-entrance and into a long hallway. It’s not a bad time for you to map out the Wayne Mansion, you suppose. Long corridors and arching windows, the hallways remind you of cathedrals and government buildings- the sleek design combined with old world architecture. 

You hum, amused at this thought, as you bring a little old world sentiment into the door of his bedroom, kick it closed with your heel. Bruce says something about not expecting company, but the room is immaculate, and he’s a liar. 

-

You don’t wake up to an empty bed, which was what you were expecting, and why getting up is so awkward. You’re a natural early-riser, that instinct beaten into you some time during the Cold War, but it’d still be a natural enough time for Bruce to get out of bed. Seven isn’t so bad, you think, looking down at him, rumpled and dreaming, lips pursed. It’d be easier if he’d just left you in this bed, maybe had his butler shuffle you out. You could deal with that. 

What you have difficulty dealing with is the fact that he probably woke up during the night, saw you laying beside him still, and decided to go back to sleep. You usually like to sleep with the billionaires who kick you out of their house with a broom five minutes after. It’s strange to see one that cares. Softly, so as not to wake him, you trace one boyish curl from his forehead down to his brow ridge. He sighs in his sleep, and you wonder what he dreams about.

But now isn’t the time to get domestic with the bat vigilante. You had shit to do this morning, and have to kick it into high gear if you want to make it in time back to your fancy hotel and not be charged another night. You roll out of bed (he sleeps with his arms tucked underneath him- just like you do) and, picking up your bra and panties, have to sigh. Super spy or not, no one really enjoyed a walk of shame. 

Underwear uncomfortably cold from the lack of your body heat, you have to admit, it’s pretty impressive to see the distance you got when you threw your dress off of your shoulders and kicked your shoes off. The dress was all the way by the door (you carefully avoided the cracks just in case someone was on the other side and could see you), and your shoes were exactly three feet apart, flipped upside down. You slip into the dress and wiggle it until it rests appropriately on your chest, and are just slipping your heels on when you hear a voice, about three doors down. 

You shouldn’t have forgotten about Dick Grayson. 

Pulling the comforter higher up on Bruce to cover his chest, you peek into your clutch (find that everything is where you left it) and check on your makeup. Still in good shape, considering you’d used waterproof (just in case), and you could probably leave looking like nothing had ever happened. Sure, your hair was a little tousled, but Bruce hadn’t pulled a pin out of place- his hands had been so gentle in your hair. Taking one final look over at him (and wondering if you could write him a goddamn thank-you note), you open the door slowly. 

A small, jet-black flop of hair runs into your stomach, and you pause, looking down. “Woops,” He laughs, and pulls his hair out of his face. It’s Dick Grayson- Bruce’s ward. He’s cute in a kittenish sort of way, squinting eyes and a too-wide smile. It’s not the wrong kind of smile, necessarily, but it makes you think that he’s way too happy for a simple smile to convey it all. “Sorry, Bruce, I was-” He looks up, sees your face, and shuts up immediately. “Uh, where’s Bruce?”

You shush him, bending at the knees slightly to make eye-contact. “He’s sleeping.” And Dick’s head tilts around you, watches his dad breathe steadily in and out, his arms wrapped around himself. 

“Oh.” He says, like he honestly can’t believe it. You know it’s difficult for him to, considering that he’s the Robin to Bruce’s Batman, and he probably wants to go over to make sure you didn’t poison him or something. “Uh.” He shuffles his feet, and it’s the honest-to-god first time you’ve ever seen someone do so outside of television. He’s looking at you, this very pretty woman who was just inside Bruce’s bedroom, and trying to think up something. 

“Do you need something, sweetheart?” You put it out gently, because he might not know how to cook for himself. Or there might be a shelf with something he needs on it and he can’t reach it. You wonder what the butler is doing.

“Oh, well, uh,” Dick’s face starts to pink, and he scratches at the back of his neck. He looks over at Bruce again, still asleep. “Bruce said he was gonna drive me to school today while Alfred was out getting groceries.”

“Oh.” You respond, ever intelligent. You didn’t come here in a car, and you were pretty much planning on walking all the way from Wayne Manor to inner-city Gotham. “I mean, I can drive- I have my license right here-” You hold up your clutch, where you had your license, in case a bartender had some questions for you. “But I don’t have a car. Sorry- I’ll just go wake Br- your dad up.” 

When you turn around, his hand grabs the extra material on the back of your dress, keeping you still. Definitely Robin. “Wait!” His voice is loud, but gets quieter, and he moves to close the door in front of the both of you. “Wait- if you can drive me, I’m sure Bruce wouldn’t mind you using one of his cars.”

You really don’t make it a point to exploit your one-night-stands and their (varied) riches. Contacts, sure. Information, of course. Money and nice cars? “What time do you have to be at school?” You ask, wary, but his eyes brighten, a little lighter blue than Bruce’s own. It must’ve been destined for him to adopt this little munchkin. You want to mess up his hair and go to his sports games. He looks like the type of kid to jump on your bed on Christmas morning to get you to wake up long after he’s discovered Santa doesn’t exist. 

Shit, you can see why Bruce adopted him. You love him and it’s barely been five minutes. 

“Eight o’clock.” He says, matter-of-fact, rocking on his heels and still wondering whether or not you were actually going to take him to school. 

“Alright, kiddo,” The lock on the door clicks as you pull the door all the way closed. “Which one’s best on gas-mileage?” And Dick looks at you like you’ve given him the sun.

“The Audi.” He says, nodding, and you wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself in to. He scurries away to the kitchen, you hot on his heels in your heels, and he looks over his shoulder constantly to make sure you’re still there. There’s a decorative vase on the counter, a little ways away from the stove, and he grabs it with both hands and upturns it, keys falling out. He searches through them, until he finds the one neatly labelled ‘Audi’, and he holds it up towards you, grinning. “C’mon, I’m gonna be late!” 

Watching him scurry off, getting his little red backpack and a posterboard, you think that there are worse things that you’ve done to your one-night-stands than use their cars and take their child to elementary school.

The garage is impressive, but you’re glad that the one car you’re going to be driving is parked where you can actually get out of it. Dick has a lot to say, and you’re damn near sure that he wants to hold your hand while he talks about his fourth-grade class. They started ecosystems yesterday, and he got the temperate forest climate, and he did a little drawing of a forest- it’s in his backpack if you want to see it. Squinting out into the harsh light of day, you pull out of the parking garage and fumble in the glove compartment for a pair of sunglasses. “If we get there before the bell rings, you can show me all you want.”

He’s quiet for a little while, sitting in the backseat and looking over his forest project. Then, “I never told you my name!” He leans forward, stretching the seat belt and showing you all of his teeth. “It’s Dick- Dick Grayson.” 

You should be glad that there’s really only one elementary school in Gotham. “Gotham Elementary, right?” When he nods furiously, awaiting your response, you follow up with your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Dick.”

“Likewise.” But it’s a weird word in his mouth, like he’s trying to copy Bruce. “... You’re a lot cooler than the other people Bruce usually hangs out with.”

“Mhm?” You don’t want to think about how many women Dick’s probably walked in on at the Manor. How mean they probably were to this little bean of a child. “I try, honestly.” This gets him to giggle, and you throw a glance at him over the back of the seat. “So, kiddo, what’s your project about?” 

You didn’t think he could smile any wider, but he proves you wrong and goes on about biomes. 

-

He waves at you the whole time it takes him to get into the school building, and then a little bit afterwards, and you watch his red backpack disappear from view. In a world without consequences, you’d take the car out for a spin, maybe pawn it off for extra on-hand cash. But, unfortunately, you live in the real world, and are obligated to return the car, no matter how reluctantly. 

Wayne Manor is a long drive off from inner-city Gotham, and you kinda wish you won’t have to walk this same distance to get back to the hotel. You might as well stay an extra night because, damn, have you overshot the appropriate time to check out. Plus, you also have to plan on begging for mercy from Bruce, whose car and child you’ve just technically stolen. 

It’s just gonna be one of those days. 

The garage is open when you come back, despite the fact that you know you closed it with the little remote (hidden in the sunglasses compartment, where there were no sunglasses). You pull in, park, and get out, circling the car to make sure you didn’t manage to scratch it or anything. When you come up empty, you sigh in relief and, taking your clutch out from where you’d jammed it in between the seats, decide it’s time to walk home and make a clean getaway. 

“You know, most people would’ve just taken the car.” Halfway down his driveway, your heels in your hand, Bruce Wayne calls out from the front door, leaning against the frame in a lounging robe. 

“Most people wouldn’t’ve taken your son to school either, but I was feeling wholesome!” You’re shouting down a goddamn driveway, and you’d definitely not do this if he had any neighbors. He doesn’t, though, so you’re free to shout as much as you like. 

“Dick had school today?” He calls out, still loud, and you huff, walking up the driveway. In a quieter voice, he repeats himself. “Dick had school today?”

“He said you were going to drive him- he had a project due.” You paused, crossing your arms. “He said it  _ was _ a day off, but there was a miscommunication, and the school called last night-”

“During the gala.” Bruce finishes for you, then looks away. “ _ Shit. _ ”

“Yeah. Shit.” You agree, looking away. “You were sleeping like the dead, though- Dick didn’t want to bother you.”

He nods, looking back at you, making eye contact. “That does sound like him.” He sighed, shaking his head. “He worries too much about me- he should’ve woken me up.”

“Well, I guess we should just be glad that I’m an early-riser.” And there’s a beat of silence, where he sizes you up, as if never seeing you before. In the light of day, you suppose, you give off a different air. You probably look distorted, away from the dim of the ballroom’s lights. 

Whatever it is that he sees in you, though, he likes it, and he relaxes. It’s strange, because you’ve only just been a decent person to him, but his body language suddenly reads as very open, as he kicks the door open a little wider. “I can pick Dick up later, then,” Bruce starts to go in, but pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Would you like some breakfast in the meantime?”

You laugh and follow him, fluffy hair and black robe, back into the Wayne Manor, the question of whether or not he does this with all of the girls he sleeps with on your tongue.


End file.
